Authors: M.J. Rose
“How long did you go to the Phoenix Foundation?”
“A few months. The doctors said it could have been a case of reincarnation, but I wasn’t a good subject for hypnosis, I couldn’t concentrate deeply enough, and we never got very far. I was scared of the whole process, but I knew how much my aunt and uncle wanted me to somehow be her, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I knew how desperate they were for the police to find the man who’d killed Solange, but there were no suspects. There were no witnesses. I thought if I could help solve the case they’d be happy, and then we could all be happy. That was all I wanted.”
The office was too warm. Lucian took off his jacket. There
was
one witness, but he hadn’t seen anything that could help. He’d never felt so useless, so impotent as he did in the weeks after the robbery. The police had interviewed him a dozen times or more, but all Lucian remembered was a brown sleeve, a man’s hand and the glitter of a knife. “I’m confused. Why did they think hypnotizing you would help the police solve the case?” he asked.
“If I was Solange reincarnated, then I had seen who broke in that night. I’d seen the killer’s face.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not if you believe in reincarnation.”
“Do you?”
Emeline looked down at her hands for a moment. “I wanted to.”
Lucian thought she sounded younger just then. As if she was suddenly remembering too much and it was more painful than she’d expected. It was time to come back to the present problem.
“What does all of this have to do with those e-mails?” he asked.
“I was in the news, Agent Glass. My uncle was distraught. He was telling everyone he met how determined he was to catch his daughter’s killer and that he believed I was going to
help him. It was a sensational crime, and the interviews he gave provided the press with all the fodder they needed to keep the story alive.” She paused and looked down at what she was holding. “When all that crazy stuff happened last month in Vienna at the concert and Malachai Samuels was shot, newspapers and all sorts of blogs dug up everything about him and the foundation. Some of them ran lists of anyone with any notoriety he’d ever treated.”
Emeline’s hand trembled slightly as she held out the papers. Lucian took them and, with a sense of dread, read the first note.
The two lines of type seemed larger on the page than they actually were, as if their toxic meaning gave them billboard stature. He read the second and third printouts even though all of them contained exactly the same message.
Tell anyone what I look like and I’ll kill you before they find me. I did it once. I’ll do it again. I’ll kill you and your father, too.
“During the renovation,” Malachai Samuels said, “I had a choice about leaving this staircase in or taking it out.” He stopped his descent, his hand on the rail. “I thought it would be appropriate to enter the present on steps that are over a hundred and fifty years old…steps that Walt Whitman, Frederick Law Olmsted, Frederick L. Lennox, Bronson Alcott and so many more traversed.”
“I agree.” Elgin Barindra, who wore black-framed eyeglasses, had already been looking down, treading carefully on the too-narrow steps. Now he regarded them with more interest. History was his métier, and he relished anecdotes like this one. “Were they all members of the original Phoenix Club?”
“All of them and more. We have the correspondence to show for it, correspondence that is waiting for you.” Malachai shook his head. “I’ve been remiss. We’ve needed a full-time librarian for years. Then I thought I’d found someone who was right for the job, but…” His voice drifted off.
“What happened?”
“He died,” Malachai said with a grimness that put an end to that part of the conversation.
“How far down are we?” Elgin asked as they reached the landing.
“You aren’t claustrophobic, are you?”
“Not at all. Just curious.”
“We’re a little more than a floor below street level in a suite that’s both fireproof and airtight. There’s only one egress other than this staircase, but it can no longer be accessed from within or without.”
Elgin wondered if Agents Richmond and Glass had guessed right about how far down this library was. Would the special electronic tracking device built into his cell phone transmit from so deep underground?
Malachai punched a numerical code into the black panel beside the oversize door, and a red light beam flashed. Based on Elgin’s résumé he’d be expected to know about high-tech security, so he didn’t question Malachai about the orbital scanner he’d noticed.
A series of four mechanical clicks sounded, and as the reincarnationist opened the door, he boasted about the state-of-the-art lock and the rest of the security systems.
As Elgin crossed the threshold, the slightly stale and cool air reached out for him in an uncomfortable embrace. Thinking about Edgar Allan Poe’s poem about Annabel Lee, he followed Malachai inside and found himself in a pearl-gray chamber with a steel-and-glass desk, leather chairs and wall-to-wall bookcases. The gothic interior decorations of the upstairs had given way to a pristine modern environment.
“Our library consists of five rooms housing more than thirty thousand items. It’s unquestionably the world’s largest and most private library on the subject of reincarnation, and less than five percent of it all has been catalogued.”
“Who started the collection?”
“My great-great-great-uncle, Trevor Talmage, in 1847. He
was quite a Renaissance man—an Egyptologist, a philosopher and a passionate believer in reincarnation. He started collecting books and materials related to the subject when he was in college, but the library didn’t become a formal part of the foundation until 1999, when I renovated the building and hired a specialist to build this modest bibliotheca.” He waved his arms, embracing the space. “Let me show you the rest.”
As they walked into each room, motion-activated halogen ceiling spots came on, and Malachai continued describing the cutting-edge environment. “The temperature never falls below sixty-five or goes above seventy. We have high-efficiency filters on the air-handling systems, and the humidity is tested constantly to maintain a forty-five to fifty-five percent level.”
Elgin nodded. “That’s certainly impressive. Many people with private libraries take care of the temperature, but few are as religious as they should be about the humidity, and it’s critical. If there’s too much moisture in the air it can lead to mildew, mold and foxing of book pages.”
Malachai smiled and moved his job applicant into what he called the reading room, which had a quartet of oversize leather chairs, each with its own individual lighting system. From there they passed through three rare-book rooms where the materials were stored in locking glass-front cases. Elgin noticed the metal shelving coated with baked enamel and again complimented Malachai. “Everything is first-rate—as advanced as any library I’ve ever seen.”
“And this is where you’d be working,” the reincarnationist said as he led Elgin into a room that had floor-to-ceiling open shelves filled with custom-made, acid-free boxes for the most fragile of the books and the ephemera that couldn’t be shelved. “This is where the private journals, papers and correspondence that make up the bulk of our collection are housed.”
Elgin’s fingers tingled at the thought of what was secreted away down here. “No one has ever gone through these?”
“No. The only time they’ve been touched was when I had them transferred into these cases.”
Walking up to the closest shelf, Elgin reached out and touched one of the boxes and then looked over at Malachai. “May I?”
“Does that mean you are accepting the job?”
Elgin nodded. “If you’re offering it, I certainly am.”
There had been no question he was going to take the job if it was offered—and Agent Glass had assured him it would be, because of the glowing letter of recommendation the director of the New York Society Library had written. He’d detailed the time Elgin had worked for him at the Library of Congress, praising his professionalism and ability. And just in case that wasn’t enough and Malachai dug deeper, the FBI had planted records at the Library of Congress showing five years of straight commendations and raises even though, in truth, Elgin Barindra hadn’t set foot in our nation’s library since he’d been in graduate school. He’d certainly never worked there.
“I hope you’ll give our receptionist, who also functions as our caretaker, a list of the foods and beverages you prefer. We keep the kitchen upstairs stocked and are happy to have our employees use it. There’s also a dining room she’ll show you where you should feel free to have your lunch or dinner if you are working late. Occasionally we entertain there, but on those days she’ll be sure to tell you if the room will be in use. This afternoon we’re having a group of scientists in from Yale University for a meeting on junk DNA and the possibility that it holds the secret to reincarnation memories.”
“That certainly sounds fascinating. I’d be interested in reading some of that research, if possible.”
Malachai looked at him with a combination of surprise and
chagrin. “It’s so very unlike me, but I forgot to ask you, Elgin. What do you think about reincarnation? Do you believe?”
Of everything he’d been briefed on, this was the one thing neither Richmond nor Glass had discussed with him. “Is it a prerequisite for the job?”
“Not at all. I need a man with credentials, not credulity, but I am curious.”
There was nothing to do but fall back on what he’d learned on his first job: it’s always easier to tell the truth. “Reincarnation is in my blood,” Elgin said, and smiled. “I was born in America, as were my parents, but we’re Anglo-Indians and practicing Hindus.”
“Believers.” Malachai rolled the word around in his mouth as if it were a delectable morsel of food.
“From the most simple concepts to soul migration. My father used to tell me a bedtime story that his mother had told him about a soul that stole into the body of a man named Mr. Star during a bad illness. The man, who’d always been mean and nasty, tried to fight the migration but was too ill to throw the soul out and so he took up residence. When Mr. Star recovered it was as a new man, suddenly kind and compassionate to all. After the new soul had accomplished what it needed to and moved on, Mr. Star suddenly went back to being his miserable self. Everyone who’d come to love and care about him abandoned him. For the first time, he understood what kind of man he’d been and vowed to change for good. When I was a kid anyone who was mean to me or my sister became Mr. Star or Miss Star, and we’d pray for a kind soul to come in and take over.” Elgin chuckled at the memory.
“Actually, the migrating soul doesn’t always take over. Sometimes the visiting soul integrates in a very comfortable way that the host allows without any fight and the two coexist peacefully.”
“Not as dramatic as my father’s story.”
“No. Few experiences are. Most people don’t come back as Cleopatra or Napoleon, and not many souls stage hostile takeovers.” Malachai smiled sardonically. “So let’s discuss how you’re going to catalogue over a century and a half of correspondence and diaries.”
Doing historical research in such a rarified environment with a salary like the one he’d just been offered was closer to what Elgin Barindra had once imagined he’d be doing with his career than his present job. He’d been at George Washington University, finishing up his library science thesis on the relationship between the Library of Congress and post–Cold War defense research when one of his professors had recommended him for an opening with the bureau. Like so many boys, Elgin had watched the FBI television show every Sunday night with his dad, but he’d never dreamed of becoming an agent. The show was just one of many escapes for a shy boy who never quite fit in. He had a stammer and childhood asthma and wore glasses that were too thick. Libraries were his true refuge. Books not only educated and entertained, they enveloped and comforted. And nothing could have appealed more to the man who’d once been a frail, sickly boy than the idea of working at the FBI library at Quantico.
He’d been sure he wouldn’t get the job because he didn’t think he could physically handle the rigorous training, but it turned out he only needed to pass the FBI’s background check and learn some basic security skills.
For the next five years he was more than satisfied with his job. After 9/11, when he heard the bureau was looking for an agent with library skills to go undercover at a university library, Elgin applied for the position. Since then he’d accepted two other field assignments and while he always started off with a
bad case of nerves, once he was on-site, he settled down and did the job he had to do.
Now, sitting across from Malachai Samuels, Elgin concentrated on what his new boss was saying about archiving these vast stores of material. His fingers itched to begin the work. What unknown history would he stumble on? What discoveries would he make?
“There are a few key words for you to be on the lookout for, especially in the letters and journals from the early days of the club.” From his inner jacket pocket, Malachai brought out a sheet of writing paper and laid it down between them.
Elgin evaluated the handwritten list of six items without exhibiting any outward signs of the astonishment he was experiencing.
This looked like the list Agents Glass and Richmond had briefed him on. Was it possible that this was what Glass had been looking at when he’d been attacked and the Viennese doctor had been killed?
“We have extensive correspondence among half-a-dozen important industrialists from the mid-nineteenth century who financed extensive archaeological digs on behalf of the club. Their largesse was the basis for the foundation’s endowment, which still finances excavations. Thanks to them we’ve dug all over the Middle East and Europe. Much of what we’ve found we’ve donated to the governments of those nations.”
“What do you keep?”
“These days we don’t technically keep anything. With laws changing so fast and so much controversy over whom antiquity belongs to, we turn everything over to the authorities and request to borrow any items that we think will aid us in the study of reincarnation. That’s where this list comes in.”
“Do you mind if I make some notes?” Elgin asked as he pulled out a worn spiral-bound notebook from his jacket. There were creases on the shiny blue cover, and the corners of the lined paper were turned back and thumbed through. He was aware that Malachai was watching him as he extracted the pencil he kept tucked into the silver spiral, an ordinary yellow pencil with teeth marks running up and down its length.
“What we’re looking for are references to ancient tools that aid in deep meditation. We call them Memory Tools,” Malachai explained.
Elgin looked up from his notes. “Wasn’t there something in the news about Memory Tools recently?”
“Yes, it’s believed that four to six thousand years ago, in the Indus Valley, mystics created meditation aids to help people go into deep states of relaxation during which they would have access to past-life memories. There were twelve tools—twelve being a mystical number that we see repeated all through various religions and in nature. I think, and other experts agree, that it’s quite possible that two of them have been found in the past fourteen months. The first was a cache of precious stones, and the second was an ancient flute made of human bone. Depending on which newspaper you read, what happened to those tools differs, but one thing I can assure you, both have been lost to research and there’s nothing we can learn from either of them for now. It’s a travesty.”
“How were they lost?”
“Red tape. Ridiculous protocols. Accidents. Fate. But what’s past is past. I…we…have lost two chances to find out if there are tools to help us pull memories through the membrane of time. We can’t afford to let a third chance slip through our fingers. That’s why you’re here.” He paused for a moment, and when he resumed his voice had taken on more gravitas. “I think it’s a real possibility that there were members of the society who heard about the tools, or in some cases may have seen them or even owned them and wrote to my great-great-great-uncle about their discoveries. Clues, Mr. Barindra. I think there are clues hiding here.” Malachai spread his arms wide as if embracing all of the thousands of volumes and tens of thousands of papers in the library. There was an expression of naked need on his face, and Elgin glanced back down at his notes, uncomfortable seeing it. Malachai might as well have stripped off his clothes and shown his newest employee the scars on his aging skin.
“The most important part of your job, other than organizing our archives, of course, is to find references to those searches and objects. We can’t find what we don’t know we are looking for.”